The Real Me
by TWbasketcase
Summary: My take on what Allison would have wrote to Vernon if she had done the essay. This is the fourth in my series of one shots. R


**Title**: The Real Me  
**Author**: TWBasketcase  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own The Breakfast Club; and for that I am bitter.  
**Summary**: This is my take on what Allison would have written if she did write the essay that Vernon assigned during the detention. Now this doesn't take place at the end of the detention…maybe somewhere during the middle of the day.  
**A/N**: Okay so this is the fourth one shot I have written now. I have already done three; each one starring one character from the film. I have already done Bender (Life as I Know It), Andy (Never the Same), and Brian (The Way Things Were) if you guys wanna check those out. So here is Allison; Claire and maybe even ole Vernon will be in the future. So drop me a line and tell me what ya think…please enjoy!

**The Real Me**

To Vernon,

You asked me to write you an essay telling you who I think I am; and I'm not really too sure that you are prepared to know that. It may freak you out, make you cry, or just plain out bore you. But either way the one thing that I know is there aren't too many people out there quite like me.

I could go in detail and give you the scary stories of my childhood, but we would both be here for days going through that so I will give you a general overview of who I am.

I am a suburban white girl. I live with both my mother and my father on Pine Street in Shermer, Illinois. I am sixteen years old and an only child; I do have a cat and my own bedroom. My favorite color is black; my favorite movie is The Outsiders, my favorite day of the year is Halloween, and I love animals. Just those descriptions alone are enough to analyze me. I have no friends or acquaintances, no cool clothes or records, it's just me…and that is the way I like it.

I am an artist. I love to paint, write, draw, and create. I can sit still in the loneliness of a park - 3 in the morning – and just draw one landscape. Still life is my absolute favorite; it makes me feel powerful and in control. It makes me feel like I can stop time for just one moment – a beautiful and happy moment – before going back to a miserable reality. Does that sound morbid? That I do something to feel powerful and controlling? I think that it is…I think that is the most disgusting thing in the whole world. Then why do I do it you ask? Because…without it I am nothing, I have nothing…no feelings.

I am a kleptomaniac; I love to steal. I get an adrenaline rush off taking things that don't belong to me without that person knowing that I stole their prized possession. I love walking down the busy streets of Chicago just slipping wallets out of pockets, cigarettes out of purses, snacks out of grocery bags. My absolute favorite though is taxi cabs…wait until they park at a convenience store and just hop the front seat for their cash. I don't often spend the cash or smoke the cigarettes…which I guess is why my bag is so full. It's not like they will miss the money anyways; they're all so fucking loaded and ignorant that they will never understand or care…so why should I?

I am adventurous; I want to travel the world. I wanna see the things that people my age only dream of…I want to do things they would never consider doing. I want to climb mountains and visit the jungle; see the peaks of the Rocky Mountains early in the morning, swim in the Pacific at night. I want to watch the world from the top of the Eiffel Tower and bungee jump so I am only inches away from the most dangerous of ravines. I want to jump from an airplane or swim with the dolphins. Anything to free my mind of the thoughts that cloud it; anywhere but here…I want to be away from this place and be free, take risks, pump my adrenaline. I want to be able to say that I have been there and done that…have people look at me with wide eyes and envy, instead of hate and curiosity.

I am a patient; I have to see a therapist every Tuesday and Thursday. It started with the school councilor; I had to visit him every time I got into any sort of trouble with my teachers. After a while he told me that it was all 'out of his hands' and that he could do nothing for me. So he sent a referral to my dad for a psychiatrist at the hospital. Ms. Perkins; a woman with a certificate and a published book; she went through college studying human behavior and got a degree and certification stating she qualifies to speak with the public. She must have been ecstatic to get a job that is paying her close to a six digit salary…but then again that was twenty years ago. She has lost all love for the job and her patients since then; must have seen too much bad stuff in people I guess. It is very easy to tell that she doesn't care what I am talking about or what my problem is; what matters to her is the label she puts my head and the authorized check in her pocket. I have given up on professional help because it really isn't gonna get me anywhere.

I am a student; I attend this school, Shermer High; a school with a population of 1,741 students and about 321 faculty, right? A school with many cliques, blind friendships, fake laughter, affairs, cheats, bullies, and more ignorance. There is not one place else that I hate more than this one. You might say that John Bender would hate school more than me but that is not true; I would cut off my right limbs to not have to come here ever again. My teachers don't care what I do; they have long since stopped caring…they actually put the exact same mark on every paper that I hand in…B+. I even copied off the stoner who sits next to me one day, well it turns out that he failed and I still got my B+. How exactly does that work Vernon? You are a teacher; would you care to tell me? Is it even possible for a teacher to get away with doing that? I didn't think so…but maybe they just do it to avoid too much communication with the dark, dirty girl who sits at the back of the classroom.

I am a contortionist. I am able to write with my toes, and eat, brush my teeth…I can also completely hold myself. It is something I have been able to do since I was a little girl. When I went to bed at night I needed to feel loved so I loved myself. I hugged myself, sang to myself, and held myself. Then after awhile when I realized other people can't position their bodies the same way I tried other things. I started sitting in strange positions, lying down with my legs out to the side and my face between them and on the floor. I pulled my feet over my head and sat that way for about an hour in the dark. It was truly comforting to me. So I started trying other things with my body; playing jump rope with my arms, twisting my elbows all the way around my arms. And like I said, I can also write, play the piano, brush my teeth, and eat with my feet. It takes practice but it comes very naturally now. I'm still working on walking on my hands, but that will come in time.

I am a daughter. My parents are Fran and Gary, they are both thirty three. Young, you say? Yeah they are…they had me when they were seventeen to be exact. I ruined my Mother's chances at becoming the Prom Queen and my Father's chances at getting into the Navy. It was my fault that my grand mother threw out my mother before high school was over and it was all my fault that they are miserable living in a shabby apartment in the west end of Shermer. My father works in an auto parts factory and my mom works at 7-11. They never went to college so they never exactly got to do the things that they really wanted to do. They never got the 3 bedroom, two story home with the white picket fence, the 2.5 kids and the dog. And it's all my fault. My fault because she couldn't keep her damn legs closed and his for whipping out his pecker. So they ignore me. They will buy food and drive me to school; but it's not because they want to it's because they feel obligated to. They won't kiss me good night, they won't wake me up. I don't get birthday parties and trips to the zoo. I was left to do that all by myself.

Which leads me to my last point; I am invisible. Transparent, unimportant, non-existent, totally see through. To my peers, to my family, to my psychiatrist, my teachers…to society. I heard Andrew Clark tell John Bender today that if he disappeared forever it would make no difference at all. I don't think that is true; this school needs people like Bender to make them laugh, to piss them off, and to sell them drugs. That entire statement applies to me…and only me. I could hang myself tomorrow and no one would care. Do you think someone like Andrew Clark would look at me, Vernon? Would he find me attractive or party with me? Would Claire Standish go shopping with me and make me over for fun? No…no they wouldn't. But they would do that for anyone else…anyone but me.

So I have come to the realization that no matter what I do it doesn't change a damn thing. I steal because I feel like it, I draw because it makes me important for at least a few seconds, I visit my psychologist to keep everyone happy, and I stay with my parents because no matter how much I hate to admit it I still depend on them for some things. I just live my life the way I do for one reason; that reason isn't attention, it isn't self pity, it isn't rebellion…it is because I am just naturally fucked. Just like the rest of the world – although they may not see it – we're all just fucked.

Even you are fucked, Vernon. I came to detention today for no reason, and you still didn't notice. So even though you read this essay – and if you did read it all congratulations – you still didn't notice that I didn't have to write it at all, or sit in this seat, or explain myself. It was just another one of those strange little things I did for no reason at all, except that I wanted to.

So here is your essay, 1926 words in all. Written by the basket case in manner that was all but personal. Do what you want with it, throw it out, keep it, read it, or even think it over. Whatever you want.

See you around, Dick.

Sincerely Yours,   
Allison Isabelle Reynolds


End file.
